


Downstairs

by notmyrevolution



Series: upstairs/downstairs [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Downstairs is like a different world. It’s smaller than upstairs, though still large enough that he can’t see the counter or the fitting rooms from where he is. While upstairs is bright lights and a colour palette of white, ivory and silver, downstairs is all rich wood, black and charcoal and splashes of red and purple. Mannequins are dressed to the nines, pinned and pressed, immaculately presented. There are displays of shirts, cabinets of cufflinks and silk ties draped artfully across the various displays. </p><p>Most importantly, however, is the row upon row of suits, trousers and blazers. They hang together with an almost military precision, blocked together by designer, then by colour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downstairs

Enjolras doesn’t do downstairs. He’s been swept up in a few needy clients, several long consultations and who knows what day the mysterious guy even works? Enjolras doesn’t have the time to run up and down stairs every hour to see if someone is down there, just so he can, what? Find out the guy’s name? No.

He manages to keep this thought process going for nearly four days, before the frustration becomes too much. This is what finds him, now, standing at the top of the staircase, staring down into the inviting light and the bold lettering that declares “MEN’S ATTIRE” with an arrow pointing down. Enjolras hasn’t been down these stairs in months, he has no _need_ to go down these stairs. Most couples will buy their groom’s and bridal party outfits _after_ the bride’s dress, and once the bride has their dress Enjolras’s job is over. If there’s ever anything he needs from downstairs, he can pull someone aside and make them get it. Enjolras doesn’t step away from his clients, and no one in the store is going to say _no_ to him (this _frustrates_ him, deep down, because they’re not _slaves_ in here).

His feet feel like they’re glued to the top step. Enjolras doesn’t _quite_ know what he’s doing, or what he’s hoping to achieve from going downstairs. He knows he wants a name, and he wants to see the guy again, but beyond that he has no clue. He doesn’t even know what excuse he’s going to use for going down there.

He heads down, not too quickly, attempting to look determined rather than curious or hopeful. He finds himself subconsciously fixing his tie and tugging down the cuffs on his shirt, and when he notices what he’s doing, Enjolras instantly hates himself.

Downstairs is like a different world. It’s smaller than upstairs, though still large enough that he can’t see the counter or the fitting rooms from where he is. While upstairs is bright lights and a colour palette of white, ivory and silver, downstairs is all rich wood, black and charcoal and splashes of red and purple. Mannequins are dressed to the nines, pinned and pressed, immaculately presented. There are displays of shirts, cabinets of cufflinks and silk ties draped artfully across the various displays.

Most importantly, however, is the row upon row of suits, trousers and blazers. They hang together with an almost military precision, blocked together by designer, then by colour.

Even Enjolras has to admit he’s impressed. It’s changed _a lot_ since the last time he was down here. It’s obvious someone has completely re-merchandised the floor.

Someone brushes past Enjolras, jolting his from his daze. All he sees is someone with long hair, a floral shirt and an obnoxiously coloured yellow blazer, before the person is disappearing around to a different area of the level. Enjolras has to wonder if everyone downstairs has a different dress code to the rest of Musain’s. Though, judging by some of the shirts and ties he sees on display here, it wouldn’t surprise him.

He steps away from the staircase, clearing his throat and heading towards where he knows the counter is. He falters, however, when he actually sees it.

His smoking companion is there, he bent over a pair of trousers he has lain flat on the counter. He’s obviously measuring the leg, and Enjolras finds himself fascinated by the way those long fingers pull a measuring tape along the inseam with a flourish only acquired by years of practice. He’s also, again, wearing only that fucking waistcoat in lieu of a suit and tie, only with a green shirt underneath this time. Enjolras has to clear his throat again.

The guy looks up, briefly confused, before he spots Enjolras and, _Jesus, that smile._

“The god of bridal has descended the staircase to walk amongst us mortals in the suit department!” he says, smiling wide and moving to lean on the counter. “What can I do for you? A tie to match your political beliefs?”

Enjolras has completely forgotten what excuse he had for coming down here. He’s annoyed by the teasing remark, he’s annoyed by the ‘god’ description, he’s annoyed by pretty much everything this guy does, and he’s also insanely attracted to him. He’s angry and he can’t think with the sight of this guy leaning towards him intently, elbows braced on the counter and _looking him over_ like he’s having the same thoughts Enjolras is.

“I need to know if you have any ivory shirts in stock,” Enjolras demands, saying the first thing he can think of. The guy looks at him, raises an eyebrow and then starts laughing.

“Really, Apollo? An _ivory shirt_? That’s the best you could come up with?” he continues laughing. Enjolras can feel his lips quirking up in a smile, and god that annoys him even more. He makes a frustrated noise in his throat, because _enough._

“What the hell is your name?” he snaps, demanding, all pretense of niceties gone.

“Oh, are we finally introducing ourselves?” The guy says, amused and completely unphased by Enjolras’s blatant rudeness.

“You already know my name,” Enjolras states. “Though apparently you dislike actually _using_ it.”

“Not because _you_ told it to me,” The guy counters, giving Enjolras an expectant look. Enjolras sighs, and rolls his eyes so hard he might give himself a headache.

“My name is Enjolras,” He said, gritting his teeth.

“Nice to meet you, Enjolras,” the guy says and _fuck_ , the way his name just rolls off that tongue so easily. It’s all Enjolras can do not to bend him over the counter and try and make him say it again, only _wrecked and begging with Enjolras’s mouth at his throat and his hand on his cock and--_ “My name is Grantaire.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras repeats, rolling the name through his mouth. It suits. Something in Grantaire’s smile brightens at this, and he steps out from behind the counter, walking over to where Enjolras is standing.

“How can I help you today, sir?” Grantaire says in his most professional sounding voice, except Enjolras’s eyes are drawn down to watching his Adam’s apple bob as he speaks. It’s cruel for him to not wear a tie.

“I think,” Enjolras starts, before looking down at himself and then around at everything he can see. “I need a new suit.”

“I’m not really surprised,” Grantaire says raising an eyebrow. “Since the one you’re wearing doesn’t fit you properly.”

“Yes, it does,” Enjolras argues, feeling irked by the accusation.

“No, it really doesn’t,” Grantaire counters, and then holds up a hand as Enjolras opens his mouth to retort. “No, stop. Why are you arguing with me, do you _see_ what floor you’re on?”

Enjolras closes his mouth, but folds his arms across his chest, an action that makes Grantaire cringe. They stare at each other for a moment, before Grantaire sighs and begins circling around Enjolras slowly. He’s looking Enjolras over in a way that’s professional, but underlined by something else entirely.

“In my opinion,” Grantaire says, making a flourish with his hands that could mean anything, “You should try a custom-made suit. It would be tailored to fit you, you can chose the fabric and the style. I would recommend a European cut for you, single breasted because you aren’t eighty, and then we could get you an extra pair of trousers in the same fabric.”

Grantaire pauses here and grins slightly, before shrugging one shoulder with a casual ease, “I could measure you up for one? If you’d like.”

All Enjolras can think of now is Grantaire’s fingers and his fucking yellow measuring tape, wrapping around his neck, following the length of his arm and _dear god on his knees taking down the length of his inseam_. He swallows dryly, but shrugs and nods casually, as if the idea is only slightly worth his consideration. Grantaire quickly waves dismissively, and walks back the counter.

“I can’t do it now, though. I have a client coming up soon, and Jehan is only here for another fifteen minutes,” he’s saying, and Enjolras assumes that the floral and yellow that passed by before was Jehan. Grantaire pulls a leather-bound book from beneath the counter, and produces a pen from somewhere, then gives Enjolras a smirk. “I can book you in for an appointment. With me.”

And yes, that’s definitely flirting. Enjolras is being flirted with again, which, _good_ , he didn’t imagine it, but also _bad_ because he’s still imagining Grantaire on his knees. He steps over to the counter, and looking down at the page where Grantaire is scrawling his name in handwriting that is nearly illegible.

“Phone number?” Grantaire says, then looks up with a smile. 

“What for?” Enjolras asks, looking at the staircase, then back. “I work upstairs, why do you need it?”

“Company procedure,” Grantaire explains, pen hovering over the paper expectantly. Enjolras gives him the numbers, watching the pen move as Grantaire writes them down in a way obviously only he can understand. Then he looks up and brings the pen up to rest on his bottom lip, biting the end between his teeth and Enjolras is seriously about to lean across the counter and kiss him, right there--

Then Jehan is there, sweeping in and standing next to Grantaire. He grips Grantaire’s elbow, murmurs something low in his ear and Grantaire is nodding and patting him on the cheek. Enjolras doesn’t quite know what’s happening, but these two seem to have their own language of touches and gestures that convey their point without speaking a word. Grantaire closes the book, and turns to Enjolras, smiling genuinely, though he seems disappointed.

“Okay, you’re all booked in, try to allow enough time for it, if I’m rushed it’s easier to be inaccurate,” Grantaire says, stepping back around the counter. He places a hand in the center on Enjolras’s back, and Enjolras can feel the warmth through his suit and shirt. He’s being guided to the staircase, as if he were a customer, but Grantaire pauses at the bottom and offers him another genuine smile. Something in Enjolras clenches, and all he wants is to close the distance between them and _kiss him_ like this was a first date and he’s standing on a doorstep. He doesn’t, instead he goes back upstairs, and doesn’t look back down because it’s _not a first date_.

When he’s back in bridal, moving through the stock room trying to find a particular dress for a photo, he feels his phone buzz in his suit pocket. He glances around, then pulls it out, just incase it’s something important.

 

**06 01 23 45 67** **3:25 PM**

red, btw.

 

Enjolras frowns, not recognising the number, and types out a quick _Excuse me?_ in response, not really wanting to deal with this.

 

**06 01 23 45 67** **3:26 PM**

the colour that would match your political beliefs, apollo. it’s red.

 

And, _oh._

_Oh, that sneaky fucking--_

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, people are absolutely amazing and there's an art-thing now and that art-thing is here: http://aparticularlygoodfinder.tumblr.com/post/49657829815/let-me-explain-you-a-couple-of-things-about-nic
> 
> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧


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